


Repercussion

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [5]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-17
Updated: 2004-07-17
Packaged: 2018-10-21 06:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Repercussion

Immediately following 'Repast' ...  
  
The alleyway at the side of the Bell led to a dark maze of sheds and lean-tos, hung with odoriferous nets, bejewelled with glass floats and studded with shells, kelp, and the detached legs of assorted crustaceans; Jack Sparrow, not wishing to renew the dampness of his person in the still-torrential rain (nor, it must be said, to hang around at the front of the inn like a pimp waiting for one of his girls to finish her trick) found a dryish corner where he could watch for Jack Shaftoe’s approach, assuming of course that this wasn’t all a ruse for Shaftoe to escape the _Black Pearl_ and her captivating captain and make his muddy, dirty way back to muddy, dirty London Town, there to return to his muddy, dirty, dull existence; for it could scarcely be anything else, cruelly deprived (or, at least, genuinely believing himself thus deprived) of one of the greatest pleasures of life -- to wit, carnal satisfaction -- and forced to endure the endless parade of rogues, Vagabonds and whores, all of them dumbly admiring his wit and eloquence and not one of 'em his match, without even decent weather to make it all bearable; and now that Captain Jack Sparrow had demonstrated to Jack Shaftoe that, while there were necessarily physical limits on the _execution_ of his physical enjoyments, there were none at all on the _intensity_ of said enjoyments, he'd surely wish to review the other limits that bounded his life; in short -- though Jack Sparrow always preferred to spin things out, to tease and titillate and torment -- Shaftoe would be a fool to run now, though if he truly did want to stay in rainy grey England, with her bombastic nobility and her seasonal bouts of bubonic plague, smallpox, the Great Pox (Jack scratched his groin, reflexively and quite unconsciously, at the very thought of it), pneumonia, pleurisy, marsh-fever, et cetera, not to mention the unholy stench of so many cold, wet, hungry, stupid people crowded together within their city walls … if he wanted to stay, if he didn't want to play the game, or dance the dance, or whatever merry metaphor might spring to mind, then Jack Sparrow -- who’d thought nothing, that lunatick moonlit night in Southwark, of manhandling a stunned and more than usually senseless Shaftoe down two flights of stairs, along the street, up the gangplank and onto the deck of the infamous _Black Pearl_ , only having to make his excuses (“sorry ‘bout me mate, sir; disappointed in love, and would insist on drowning the memory of her sweet sad face at the bottom of a barrel of rum”) to one reeling watchman, and of course to those members of his crew who’d assembled to welcome him aboard, grinning and cheering when their Captain had introduced the swaying, blindfolded shape as a member of the Swedish royal family, in exile after various disgusting reversals which he was not at liberty to discuss, and bound for a new life in the sun -- would not lift a hand to prevent him, would even lend him a couple of coins to ride the stage back to London (though such a loan might not, come to think of it, be a sensible investment, since he’d likely never see Jack Shaftoe again; and _that_ , thought Jack Sparrow, would be a damned shame): but wait, there was a shadow at the mouth of the alleyway, silhouetted against the grey diagonal bars of rain, and Sparrow grinned (the flash of smile as much a signal of his location as a sign of friendliness) and moved forward, and then swayed back, balance on his back leg, blocking the expected punch with his left hand and -- without thinking about it -- bringing his right, with the knife in it, up against Shaftoe's collarbone (now was not the time to recall the taste of his skin) and laughing breathlessly along with Shaftoe, whose elbow was against Sparrow's ribs, whose booted foot was pressing against his ankle, but not pressing quite hard enough to unbalance him again; and for a moment the two of them were quite still, braced against one another in a way that had as much of the embrace as the wrestling-match about it; Sparrow would never have admitted it to Jack Shaftoe, but the relief he felt was more dangerous to his equilibrium than Shaftoe's desultory blow had ever been, and in fact was so great that only some vestigial trace of caution (or more likely his inveterate tendency to draw things out) kept him from leaning in, winding his way through Shaftoe's various defences, and stealing a kiss; but in fact he wanted that kiss to be given freely, as a sort of seal on their mutual undertaking, as a sign that Shaftoe accepted and wanted and perhaps even _desired_ what Jack Sparrow was offering him, to wit a new life in the sun (as sought by disgraced European nobility, from time to time) and, furthermore, nearly limitless opportunities for carnal satisfaction, and all manner of lecherous behaviour which, no doubt, had never even been _thought_ of in Southwark; but when Sparrow drew breath to say all this and much more, he found his mouth barred by Shaftoe's finger, which tasted (how could he resist?) of oysters, and bacon, and of Jack Shaftoe himself, whose voice hitched as he said, "Just bloody ask me, you arrogant bugger, and tell me first that you'll accept my answer, whether you like it or not!"; and Sparrow, taking a moment to process this statement and examine it for loopholes and caveats, ran his tongue idly, and almost automatically, along Shaftoe's finger, grinning at the noise he'd elicited; he drew back, then, and murmured, "My word on it, mate, honestly; if you'd rather stay in Merry England -- if you'd rather turn your back on that whole wide world of terrible and miraculous sights and vices and delights -- why, then Captain Jack Sparrow won't prevent you; though --" and it was probably a good thing that Shaftoe interrupted him before he could make the offer, in graphickal detail, of a last night's entertainment (not to mention persuasion) in Captain Jack Sparrow's bed; it was two days since Southwark, and he hadn't liked to press the issue, and besides had elected to give Shaftoe time to calm down after the matter of the kidnapping, not to mention the physical, emotional and spiritual after-effects of being so thoroughly -- and, apparently, enjoyably -- fucked; but Jack Shaftoe's mouth was on his, deliciously hot and sourly flavourful (God rot Essex beer!) and entirely what he'd wanted, so Jack Sparrow let it go, let himself be kissed (and returned the favour, with interest and with enthusiasm) until Shaftoe broke the kiss, breath all out of time, and tightened his hand around Jack's wrist until it hurt, and said, "I'll come, then; but don't think this makes you --" and, since Jack Sparrow was quite sure that it _did_ make him whatever it was, he took the opportunity of kissing that broad open mouth again, not quite silencing Shaftoe but certainly robbing him of coherency: time enough to argue, really, once they were back on board the _Black Pearl_.


End file.
